


at the edge of everything

by Serendipitous_We_Meet_642



Series: Eye of the Storm [2]
Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: All of the Similes and Metaphors, Canon QPR, Existentialism, Gen, I truly hope next episode works out for them, It's Quiet Contemplation Time w/ Zolf and Wilde, The Void That Is Existence, and having his life partner around to help him out, but if it doesn't here is your halfway fix it for all of the ensuing horribleness, mostly Zolf trying to sort out how reality works again, unreality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-27 00:48:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30114606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serendipitous_We_Meet_642/pseuds/Serendipitous_We_Meet_642
Summary: He doesn't know who he is, or where he is, or why he is - but there is a voice calling his name.Or: Dropping through a portal in time and space can have symptoms, such as confusion, grief, and a lack of understanding about the nature of reality.  Common treatments for these problems include being comforted by those who you love and taking some time to just breathe.
Relationships: Zolf Smith & Oscar Wilde
Series: Eye of the Storm [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2216043
Comments: 1
Kudos: 24





	at the edge of everything

_Zolf._

____The present and the past and the future warp together like blades of grass twining into a crown. Each a fragile form that could be torn apart with the gentlest of tears. Each as unsteady and unbearable as a ship on a frothing sea, as a look cast through the inky black of the night, as an airship riding the currents of a rainbow-strewn sky._ _ _ _

__

__He frowns, or at least, thinks about frowning. Where had that last one come from? The past? The future? Perhaps the present – but no, that isn’t right. The present is a blue thing, a desperate thing, an aching thing. It is muscles pushed past their brink, and a mind tossed beyond its limits. A soul thrown through space and time and somehow remaining whole despite it – if not all the wholer because of it._ _

__

_Zolf._

__

_____His frown deepens. Is that his name? He’s fairly certain that’s his name. It certainly sounds like his name, a single rough syllable spoken like a knot tied too tight, like a fire guttering in a stove, like a life strangled out before it can truly begin._ _ _ _ _

__

_Zolf!_

_____ _

The voice is insistent, he’ll give it that. It definitely believes that’s his name. He’s inclined to believe it, too. But there is something to the inky black of this eternal night. Something about the way he is being cradled by the vast darkness that makes him feel as though he shouldn’t try to leave it just yet. He doesn’t know what is waiting for him on the other side. It could be more danger, _always more danger _, or a voice with recriminations meant to bury guilt into his lockbox of a heart, or a broken body that will accomplish it without even having the decency of speaking a single word. There could be anything out there, and he doesn’t know if he could survive the leap of faith if all it leads to is another fall through infinity.__

_____ _

_No._

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

It’s not his thought, but it’s also not _not _his thought. It’s a voice and a presence and a feeling and a hope. It is entirely him, and not him at all. It is a crack in a mirror that he had shattered long ago; it is a plea to an unforgiving ocean; and it is a tangled-up stream of grief and relief and acceptance that springs from the lockbox with a single word as its key.__

________ _ _ _ _

_____“Zolf?”_ _ _ _ _

________ _ _ _ _

Consciousness spreads slowly, moving from his toes to his fingers to his brain. By the time his mind is able to understand what the word _present _even means, he is already up and scrabbling about for purchase, frantically trying not to fall back into that endless well of being and unbeing. His desperate hands are snatched up by another pair, and he is about two seconds from punching their owner in the face – or maybe drowning them in a bucket, the memories of what is now are still a little fuzzy – when he realizes that he knows these hands.__

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

___They aren’t exactly what they used to be. There are no callouses on the knuckles, the ones that develop from months upon years of writing with a quill. There is no scar on the right palm, sunken in by a silly trick with a blade gone wrong and kept out of a foolish desire to cling to the past in all its guilty glory._ _ _

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

___But there is that ever-present coolness in the fingers that turns to searing warmth at their tips. As if they are buzzing to be free of this prison of poor circulation, as if all they want is to set the world aflame with a single snap. There is a youth in these hands that Zolf isn’t prepared for, and there are too many memories behind it of what is gone and what is left. But there is a familiar tide of care carried in the circles those hands spiral into his palms, those hands that stretch out to hold what is theirs by choice. Zolf knows these hands, even if he doesn’t this version of them all that well. Not yet, anyway._ _ _

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

___“You all right?”_ _ _

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

___It’s a silly question, and they both know it. Zolf bites down a laugh. Not the time._ _ _

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

___“Are you?” he asks._ _ _

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

___Wilde snorts. “Well, I just had a run-in with an old and rather unpleasant ex of mine, had a bit of a spiritual journey both within myself and within the confines of the cosmos we have the audacity to call our own, and then woke up to the fear all of my friends were gone in the exact same way as last time. But aside from all that, I am doing wonderful. Thank you for asking.”_ _ _

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

___Zolf’s eyes widen in a way he hopes doesn’t come across as comical. He schools his expression back to neutrality, but it feels lighter than his usual stoicism, somehow. Wilde rarely shares this much. They’ve talked about it, of course. They’ve talked about a lot of things over the past year and a half, but it rarely comes out in such a flood, and never in a place where other people could hear. It is usually over copious amounts of alcohol, in one of their rooms, in the quiet and the dark and the reverent stillness. In the places where the bard can fall apart in peace, and even then, the falling often has to be coaxed out of him. He has to be convinced that it won’t get him killed, not this time, although you never know about the next time. They never knew._ _ _

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

___“Right,” Zolf says, and immediately wishes he were a different dwarf, someone better equipped at talking with others. He might understand them, or thinks he does at any rate, but when it comes to the bedside manner bit, he has to admit he is complete and utter rubbish._ _ _

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

___Wilde doesn’t seem to mind, just continues holding his hands and smiling faintly into the dark. His smile still isn’t pulled apart by a scar, but as Zolf watches, he absently moves a hand to trace the space where it used to be. That is what finally snaps Zolf out of this daze, and his eyes flit around, taking in their surroundings and each of his teammates in turn._ _ _

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

___Their rag-tag crew has been plunged into a deep black, but Zolf’s eyes gain purchase on it quick enough, and he’s only a little surprised to see a familiar sewer system around them. Apparently, the niggling suspicion at the base of his skull (that had sounded oddly like Hamid) wasn’t half wrong. There is a pool of sewage beside them, ripples spreading out over its clumped surface. No doubt where they emerged from, and a sight he remembers all too well._ _ _

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

___To his left, Hamid is trying to help steady Skraak against a frankly filthy wall – and is in turn being helped by Azu in much the same way. Both smaller beings look the worse for wear, but they’re still alive, so that has to count for something. Azu isn’t looking too good either, but she at least seems to have a handle on the nausea. Apart from the grimaces that look to be permanently smudged into all their faces, they all look something like fine. None of them are missing any limbs or nothing, which is impressive considering their method of transportation._ _ _

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

___To his right, Cel paces circles in the darkness. They don’t look like they got off as lucky as the others. Their hair is an even wilder frizz around their head than usual, and they have to keep stopping to retch up what must be nothing but bile by now into a shadowy corner. Their eyes gleam brightly against the black, and Zolf isn’t sure he likes the look in them. He’s about to go over and see what’s going on with them, for better or worse, when he notices the conspicuous absence of one of their number._ _ _

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Where’s Sumutnyerl?” he asks, his voice sounding gruff and strained to his own ears. Wilde averts his eyes, and the calming circles on Zolf’s palm pick up speed. Zolf can feel the certainty of what Wilde is going to say next already setting in, but the hope hasn’t faded yet, not completely. The damned thing. “ _Wilde. _Where’s Sumutnyerl?”__

____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___When Wilde finally does meet his eyes, there is something in that tawny-flecked blue that turn Zolf’s heart to stone. “They didn’t make it. Who knows where they are, in that place.” A reflexive shiver wracks through Wilde, and Zolf tightens his grip on Wilde’s hand. It seems to have a grounding effect on the bard, like electricity latching onto a lightning rod._ _ _

____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___“What’d you see in there?” It’s a silly question, and they both know it. Wilde has already tipped his hand. They both know exactly who he means when he says ‘an unpleasant ex.’ They both know what his scar was a reminder of, kept out of that same stubbornness to let every mistake leave its mark and because even magic has limits, especially when it comes to death and dying. Or so Zolf had thought, although the current lack of scar on his face is proof enough that this sort of thing ain’t a science._ _ _

____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___Wilde says nothing, just tips his head in something like a nod. Zolf cracks something that’s supposed to be a comforting smile; it ends up matching the omnipresent grimace instead._ _ _

____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___It doesn’t matter, one way or another, because in the end, they are here and Sumutnyerl is not. That’s just the hard truth of it. Wilde’s ex isn’t here, Sasha isn’t here, Feryn isn’t here. All the people they’ve left and lost – all the people that have been left bloody and broken behind them – all of those people are no longer here. And yet, here they are. Still here._ _ _

____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___Zolf debates with himself for a few moments before removing one of his own hands from the bundle and bringing it up to Wilde’s face. Touching the place where the scar would be with careful if rough fingers. Wilde closes his eyes and lets out a shaking breath. Zolf follows suit. It doesn’t make any sense that here, at the end of the world and the edge of a sewer, with missing bodies and broken friends all around them, they could possibly find the space to breathe._ _ _

____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___And yet, they do. And yet, for a single moment, Zolf feels the hope flicker through him like the guttering of a flame, like a ship carving an impossible path across a frothing sea, like a letter through time and a party through space and a beam of sunlight through the clouds._ _ _

____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___This is their present, but if they get really, really lucky, it might just be their future, too. Zolf will hold onto that hope, until he is no longer here himself. Perhaps even after. But for now, he clutches Wilde’s hand and just breathes._ _ _

____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you all enjoyed! Because I just can't get enough of these boys, this is now a series - yippee! I have at least one other bit planned for what is quickly becoming Quiet Contemplation Time with Zolf and Wilde, set post-Blue-Vein-Apocalypse because I think after this week's Magnus episode we all need some hope for a happy ending.
> 
> Some quick things because this fanfic will probably become null and void after next week's episode. I am basing much of this off the presumption that they are going to end up near the pool of sewage that Zolf jumped into in the prologue, which may or may not still have a few chunks of Simulacrum in it, including, mayhaps, the seed. But with Alex, who knows what twists and turns this story will take. All we truly know is that they will be awful, heart-wrenching, and incredibly brilliant. 
> 
> Speaking of most of the above, I've decided for no reason in particular that Wilde absolutely got his scar after an ill-fated meeting with a former old flame and possible colleague by the name of Alfred Douglas (who in real life was a long-term lover of his despite their many, many breakups - honestly, the history of it is really interesting and I suggest looking it up because Google). Alfred was unfortunately infected, he attacked Wilde, etc. etc. We've all read the fanfics. I might write one. Who knows.
> 
> I have genuinely no idea if either of these headcanons will be confirmed in the future, but if you're living there and they're not, I'm sorry for this grievous attack on canon. And if you are there and they are true, holy shit I'm a flippin' prophet of the apocalypse, and you should kneel down before me and/or write poetry for me. That is all. 
> 
> Stay safe, stay bright, and stay brilliant, you wonderfully wacky seamen, seawomen, and sea-thems! Until we meet again, in this life or the next.
> 
> (Oh, before I forget, I am so sorry for sacrificing Sumutnyerl on the pyre of Alex's wrathful intent. They are absolutely lovely, and I only want good, healing things for them, but somebody had to fail to make it through the teleport, or it wouldn't be a true Rusty Quill Gaming fanfic.)


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